


140

by yauksiei



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (the latter was picked at random), Cheesy/cutesy love confession, Derek getting annoyed, F/M, Humor, Kissing in the Jeep, Shakespeare, Sonnet 140, Sonnet 15, is cutesy a word? I don't know but it is now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-17
Updated: 2012-10-17
Packaged: 2017-11-16 12:05:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/539223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yauksiei/pseuds/yauksiei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles recites Shakespeare for a project. It's not as bad as you think.</p>
            </blockquote>





	140

**Author's Note:**

> This is dedicated to someone who left a beautiful comment on "Our Story", another Stydia fic I wrote the other day. The name they left above the comment was "allie wingo", and they signed it at the end "lovelyloupus". I want to say that I wrote this for them, and if you're reading this, I want to thank you again for making my day so much better, and for making my week that much more bearable. <3
> 
> I hope you all enjoy! :D

Lydia wrote down the due dates for the project her English teacher was talking about as they were written on the board. The students were to memorize one of Shakespeare's sonnets and present it to the class next week, having an annotated copy as well to hand in for a grade. It should be easy enough, for her at least. Shakespeare had nothing on her brilliant brain. But some people-- _Stiles--_ probably wouldn't be so lucky, especially with his attention problems. _  
_

She did feel some pity for him when she saw him slump in his desk out of the corner of her eye. The kid really was trying, and it wasn't his fault he couldn't focus; he was just born like that. Still, he was too annoying and completely off her radar, so Lydia simply couldn't bring herself to care much more than that brief train of thought before thinking about which sonnet she should do, and whether or not to do it tonight (because let's face it, she could do it blindfolded). The bell rang loud in her ear--they really should change the tone or something before she goes deaf--before she could decide.

Stiles tried to stutter out a hello, but she walked right past him.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Lydia had almost forgotten about the project when she walked into the classroom a week later, but almost being the key word, a short look in her backpack and mental files found both materials needed for the assignment quick as you like. She'd chosen Sonnet 15 at random, flipping through the library book with her eyes closed. She never liked to present things she had deep feelings for in public, so why bother to actively look for one?

Mrs. Kirk went in alphabetical order, so Lydia presented about halfway through the class. She handed her annotated project with her cute little smile to the English teacher before doing a quick pivot and strutting up to the front of the class. As for a presentation strategy, Lydia decided to go with overexaggeration that was just enough to be borderline satirical, yet at the same time be the perfect level of dramatic needed to impress the teacher. She'd worked out the system when she was in elementary school, because she can never not put on a show.

"Sonnet 15," Mrs. Kirk reads from her paper, "Whenever you're ready, Ms. Martin."

She gave her another smile before turning back to the class.

 _When I consider everything that grows_  
Holds in perfection but a little moment,  
That this huge stage presenteth naught but shows  
Whereon the stars in secret influence comment;  
When I perceive that men as plants increase,  
Cheered and checked even by the selfsame sky,  
Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,  
And wear their brave state out of memory;  
Then the conceit of this inconstant stay  
Sets you most rich in youth before my sight,  
Where wasteful Time debateth with Decay,  
To change your day of youth to sullied night;  
And all in war with Time for love of you,  
As he takes from you I engraft you new.

 _  
_Lydia is, of course, met with thunderous applause as she struts back to her seat. A couple more present, and then it is Stiles walking awkwardly up to the front of the room. He is the last one to go before they can have the rest of the period to themselves, so everyone really starts nodding off and/or tuning out before he even hands his paper over.

"I'm um," he clears his throat, "I'm doing Sonnet 140."

Mrs. Kirk gestures for him to start. Lydia feels the tiniest bit bad for him as he tries to get his bearings while passing his nerves off as just being Stiles, but failing miserably and having a couple of guys in the back laughing at him.

But when he starts, no one is laughing anymore.

_Be wise as thou art cruel; do not press  
_ _My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain,  
_ _Lest sorrow lend me words, and words express  
_ _The manner of my pity-wanting pain._

_  
_There is a passion in Stiles' voice that no one had ever heard from him before. It's something raw and _rea_ _l,_ like he knows exactly what he's saying and how he finds honest truth in the words, as if he had a subject for his presentation that had nothing to do with getting a good grade or Shakespeare whatsoever.

Lydia doesn't know how, but suddenly she's going through a mental list of people Stiles might be talking about. No one fits. He continues:

 _If I might teach thee wit, better it were,  
_ _Though not to love, yet, love, to tell me so;  
_ _As testy sick men, when their deaths so near,  
_ _No news but health from their physicians know,  
_ _For if I should despair, I should grow mad,  
_ _And in my madnes might speak ill of thee.  
_ _Now this ill-wresting world is grown so bad  
_ _Mad sland'rers by mad ears believed be.  
_ _That I may not be so, nor thou belied,_  
Bear thine eyes straight, though thy proud heart go wide.

 _  
_It's quiet. It's very, very quiet. Lydia would wager this is the most silent room she's ever been in with Stiles in it, though honestly she can't blame her fellow students. Even she is blown back by the emotion that flowed under Stiles' voice, building gradually up until the middle of the sonnet before fading back into a soft yet fiery, unexpected beauty that had her unknowingly gripping her desk.

Stiles clears his throat and sort of half-falls his way back to his seat. The rest of the students slowly start to talk until the end of the period, the subject of their conversation never truly fading out as they try not to talk about what the hell just happened. Lydia thinks they're evasive about it not because Stiles is sitting right there--that never stopped them before anyway--but because they had no idea what the  _hell_ just happened.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

If there is one thing Lydia Martin can't stand, it's not knowing something. Whether it's a secret about werewolves, or just simple questions on a test, she  _has to know_ or she'll get pissed. And no one likes her when she's pissed.

Lydia knows that, while not everyone has to like her, the majority of them do, so instead of having her mother pick her up again--since Jackson left and she doesn't have a parking pass, Mrs. Martin is her only option--she hops into Stiles' Jeep.

Yes, this gives Stiles an almost premature death, and yes it is very amusing. As annoying as he could be, Lydia has always seen him as a boy who could make her smile, which was, if she thought about it, a very exclusive list. So kudos to him.

"Take me home," she states simply, settling into the passenger seat.

"Wha--I--"

"Just do it."

Stiles puts the old thing into drive and pulls out of the parking lot. Lydia gets right to it, due to the fact that because Beacon Hills is a small town, her house isn't far from school, giving her about 10 minutes to find out what went on in English. Plenty of time.

"What happened today with your project?" she asks.

It's a simple question, but Stiles loves to make things complicated. "Project? Which-which project? I had a couple projects today--"

"You know which one," Lydia interrupts, because the last thing she wants is for him to start on a signature ramble. "Who were you talking about?"

"W-why do I have to be talking about someone? Just Shakespeare, right?"

"That didn't sound like 'just Shakespeare' to me. Stiles," Lydia looks right at him so he knows she's not lying just for his benefit (she gets the feeling people have done that enough to him already), and says, "That was an amazing presentation."

A blush colors Stiles' entire face, and it is admittedly adorable. "I--you...really?"

"Really. And no one is ever that good without choosing a pretty strong target to focus on. I want to know what it was."

Stiles shrugged a shoulder, "Aw, y'know, just Scott."

"Unless you're suddenly in a gay relationship with your best friend who is currently in a gay relationship already, I know that's a lie."

Stiles' face falls. "Of  _course_ you'd know about Scott and Isaac."

"Stiles,  _everyone_ knows about Scott and Isaac. They might as well put up a banner. Now answer my question. It's simple enough."

He hesitates, glancing over at her more than once as his hands grip the steering wheel until his knuckles are bone white.

"It...I...it was you."

Lydia will give him more kudos; he manages to render her utterly speechless.

"...me?"

"Yeah. If you haven't noticed, I'm kinda still in love with you," he shrugs a shoulder, "Not saying your my cheating mistress or anything, but, y'know..."

It's the first time she's ever going to say it to a guy. "No, Stiles. I don't konw."

Stiles audibly gulps. "Well, it's...with Jackson, and all those other boyfriends you've had...it just feels like I'm sick instead. I know, I've turned into a bleeding heart straight from a romance novel, but it's true, it really is. What I said at the dance last winter, I still mean it, even though you still refuse to talk to me, especially since I hit Jackson with my car. Which, by the way, was half your idea. I keep trying and trying to get you to see me in some way, but it's hopeless, and I know it's hopeless, that's the worst part. I'm past realizing you'll never like me that way, I'm just so far in denial that Egypt probably thinks I've been eaten by the crocodiles. I want to let go, and I've tried, believe me, I've  _tried_ , but nothing's worked. Did you know I even kissed a guy to try and get over you?" he nods fervently at her wide eyes, "Oh yeah! I ended up getting slammed into a wall and growled at for my attempts at shock therapy. He hasn't come near me since though, so I guess _something_ good came out of that. Anyway, my point is, I chose that sonnet because it made me think of how horrible I am at letting things go, especially when it comes to you. This has been Stiles Stilinski, expert of over-sharing."

He starts pulling up her driveway as Lydia tries to figure out how she feels about what he told her. Something negative must appear on her face, because Stiles' shoulders slump as he stops the car next to her house.

"Look, forget I said anything," he murmurs, "It's not a--"

"If you say it's not a big deal," she snaps, "I will castrate you where you sit."

He is, for once, at a loss for words.

Lydia reaches over and kisses his cheek. "Thank you," she says, and she means it too.

With their faces so close, she should have predicted his impulsive move. However, she lets him grab her face and kiss her in the same passion with which he recited Sonnet 140. It doesn't feel strange or invasive, like she thought it would be. Instead it feels...kinda nice. Actually, more than nice. It's... _right_. She could only name one other person who gave her this feeling, and Jackson still didn't stir such emotions in her chest the way Stiles' kiss was doing right now. Which is why when Stiles tries to be his idiot self again and pull away, her hands clamp on his face to keep him right where he is, sending a clear message that he is not going anywhere in a while, so he might as well relax and enjoy it. He makes a surprised noise in the back of his throat before going along with it in renewed vigor a beat later.

Her mother's car horn breaks their impromptu make out session in a snap.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Lydia gets a text from an unknown number a couple of nights later.

_Shut him up or I will come into your room and rip everything you own to shreds._

_DH_

Instead of being intimidated, she finds herself laughing. 

**Author's Note:**

> I don't think I got the sonnet's meaning in there very well, so, sorry for that.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


End file.
